Rain
by TheWorldInBlue
Summary: "Heavy evening rain dropped heavily on the pane; clear droplets beaded quickly downwards, falling to the wind under vigilant, melancholia hazel eyes."


Rain

Heavy evening rain dropped heavily on the pane; clear droplets beaded quickly downwards, falling to the wind under vigilant, melancholia hazel eyes. The owner of the misted eyes sat silently on the bed, head cradled in one hand. The lightning flashed before him, sharp and thin, with thunder following close behind. The entire atmosphere was a cloud—one mindless, gray shape, with the thickness of cotton and the color of dead ash.

Sam hadn't come home tonight. The room was devoid without him.

Thoughts, as dense as the colossal veil outside, weighed their own weight in Dean's mind. He didn't know where Sam was. He could only make an educated guess.

A guess wasn't good enough.

His head began to feel weighted with the sheer volume of words pounding at his skull. He wished for Sam's return—not even that—a phone call, a text, _anything._ Ocher eyes turned to look at the corner of the room, where a grimy stand stood dejectedly. On the stand, a phone sat, equally as lonely and untouched. Dean's phone hadn't rang once today. He hadn't used it today. He, earlier, had pondered using it to call Sam—but if Sam hadn't contacted him yet, chances were Sam didn't want to be bothered. And while that bugged the hell out of Dean, he respected his brother's privacy.

Sam wasn't a child anymore. Dean knew that.

Glancing back towards the window, Dean was only half-startled to see a figure in front of it, looking equally as pensive as he.

Forehead creased in considerable worry, eyebrows wrinkled, and lips pursed, the angel stared back at him, mirroring his thoughts. They considered one another in utter silence, blue-grey gazing into hazel-brown. Castiel took in the sight of Dean's hunched form, placed neatly on the bed as if someone set him there, and was going to come back later for him. The angel could not ignore the tension in that form, the taut, fragile strings that ran through the limbs, ready to break at any moment.

Dean spoke first.

"Hey, Cas." The sound was almost muted. Dean had let down the façade he plastered onto his being, and bared himself, soul unclothed in front of the angel, the messenger of the Lord.

"Dean." The angel replied, softly, eyes sympathetic towards the sight. Said man's eyelids were heavy with a certain sort of dismal gladness, but only slight, in seeing the angel. "Is it Sam?" Castiel questioned, sensing that another presence was lacking. "He didn't come back?"

Dean shook his head slowly. His gaze traveled to the floor, almost to the angel's polished shoes, but not quite. It actually reached past them, but past the floor as well. He was staring back into his own mind, retreating within the thoughts in his head once again. His eyes were only windows, reflecting the despondent grey of his mind, so much like the window obstructed by the angel.

Castiel glided obtrusively over to where Dean sat. Glided, for his feet made no noise on the dark wood. Kneeling in front of Dean, Castiel placed hands on either side of his face.

"Dean…" he whispered, bringing them closer together. His words lit as if a bulb in Dean's echoing mind, breaking him from the bleak reverie of the overcast evening. Soft lips brushed over chapped ones, hushed sentiments passing from one to the other. "Dean—"

The man grabbed the angel suddenly, dragging him down onto the bed.

"Cas," Dean muttered, "kiss me." His hands were too rough on the angel, but Castiel kept quiet, concentrating on the one task he had been given. The hands trembled slightly; Castiel could feel it. Dean was undressing him now, his ivory trench coat thrown haphazardly across the floor below, tie dangling from his sturdy neck. Castiel continued to kiss him.

Suddenly, like the lightning that came and went, Dean froze, tensed. Completely rigid, he emitted a broken, defeated cry that resounded in the room. Castiel was afraid to open his eyes again, fearful of what he might see. Steeling himself, his eyes opened.

Underneath him was an overwhelmed man, a shell of himself, subjugated by sadness, by his own guilt, by his own fear. Tears streaked hot down his face, spilling back onto the bed. Dean did all he could to hide the noises, still not quite ready to admit defeat.

Castiel held him tightly, letting the tremors shake him as well.

"I can't save him, Cas…"

He knew there was nothing more he could do.


End file.
